


Dying from Overthinking

by Elisara



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:37:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisara/pseuds/Elisara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The supernatural has injured Sheriff Stilinski, and now the truth must come out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dying from Overthinking

Stiles carefully maneuvered his father down onto the couch, frowning at the grunt of pain the movement elicited. "Stay here. I'll go get you something to drink and your pain meds."

"Stiles."

"No, seriously Dad. Just relax, okay?" Stiles started backing out of the room, cursing as he tripped over his own foot. "I've got this."

John Stilinski leaned his head back on the couch and stared at the ceiling as he poked at the wounds (claw marks, his mind supplied) that ran over his shoulder and down his arm, thoughts flitting rapidly through memories of everything that had happened in the last six hours. When Stiles returned, John ignored both the juice and the tablets being held out for him, and grabbed his son's wrist. "We need to talk."

"Dad, just take your pills, okay? I know you're in pain. Please, just take them."

"Stiles. Sit down."

With a heavy sigh, Stiles sank to the cushion next to his father. "Dad, I wish you'd just -"

"You've been lying to me," John interrupted. He shook his head as Stiles' face went pale and he started trying to stutter a denial. "No, stop. Stiles, I know when you're hiding things from me. I've always known." He sighed heavily as he released his son's wrist and rubbed his hand over his face. "You've always been good at deflecting, at talking your way around things. Your mother was the same way." He gave a small huff of a laugh. "She used to make a game of it. She'd spin me clever little stories and wild theories every time she was up to something she didn't want to admit. I knew she was lying, and she knew I knew she was lying, but it didn't matter because I knew that, if it was really serious, really important, she'd trust me enough to tell me the truth. I always thought you'd do the same."

He turned away from the stricken look on his son's face as he ran fingertips over the bandages at his shoulder, staring at the wall where his wife's picture used to hang. "I was wrong, though. And it's probably my fault you don't trust me enough to come to me when you really need me. After she -" his voice broke and he closed his eyes for a moment as he pulled himself back together. "After we lost her, I was so buried in my grief that I wasn't there for you when you needed me. For weeks, I wasn't there for you. That night I found you curled up on the bathroom floor, shaking and struggling for breath and it took me forever to realize what was wrong through the haze of alcohol, that was the night I realized just how much I had failed you. And I swore, I _swore_ , it would never be like that again. That I would always be there for you when you needed me, no matter what."

He turned to look at Stiles, the pain in his heart much worse than the pain in his shoulder. "But you don't trust me. You sit there with your mother's eyes and your mother's words and you spin stories and cleverly disguised half-truths and for months I've known you were lying to me about something important. At first, I thought it was just delayed rebellion. I thought maybe you were acting out because you hadn't allowed yourself to fully grieve over the loss of your mother. Those first few months after we buried her I kept waiting for you to get angry, to blame the doctors, to blame _me_. And you never did. You just seemed to pull yourself out of it without any help. I thought..." He sighed heavily. "I thought it meant you were dealing with it, that you were okay. But that's not what it meant, was it. You weren't okay, you were just getting more adept at hiding it, at shoving it down and ignoring all that pain, and you wouldn't share it with me and let me help you, because I let you down when you needed me the most." John shook his head. "Now there are people getting hurt, people dying, and I know you're tangled up in this somehow, but you just keep telling me lies. You won't trust me enough to give me the truth and let me help you handle it."

He stretched his arm out wrapping it around his son's neck and pulling him close, leaning down to press his cheek against the silky buzz of Stiles' hair. "I don't know how to fix this, Stiles. I don't know what to say, or what to do to convince you to trust me, to believe in me." He closed his eyes as a muffled sob came from his shoulder. "Tell me how to fix this, Stiles."

"Dad, I -" Stiles' voice hitched on another sob as his fist clenched in the material of his father's shirt. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I just, I thought I was doing the right thing." He raised his head, eyes red and full of tears. "You haven't failed me, Dad. I thought," he sniffed and squeezed his eyes closed. "I just don't want to be a burden. I don't want you to resent the fact that you have to deal with a stupid, hyperactive kid all by yourself. If I'd...if I had been quieter, more patient, less demanding, maybe she'd have lasted longer. Maybe she'd have gotten better. I don't know, I just-"

Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, John wrapped both arms tightly around his son. "What? Stiles, no. God, no. Why would you think that? There was nothing you could have done to change what happened. God, have you been thinking that all this time?" He blinked back his own tears. "Stiles, there was nothing either of us could have done to save your mother. And you're not a burden to me. You're the most important person in my world. You're _everything_ to me. You're this little piece of her that I still have in my life, and you're becoming a person I'm so proud to have as a son. I love you so much there are times I can barely breathe because of it. That's why I _need_ you to tell me what's going on. I need to be able to protect you, and I can't do that when I'm so completely in the dark."

"I never meant to hurt you. I swear I didn't."

"Then trust me," John said. "Tell me what's really going on. Let me help you."

Stiles pulled away, but wouldn't meet his father's eyes. "You'll never believe me, Dad. You'll think I'm still lying to you."

"Then find a way to make me believe," John said, squeezing his son's shoulder. "Please."

Stiles sniffed and wiped his face on his sleeve, then nodded. "Okay. Yeah, okay." He breathed out a heavy sigh, but somehow the look on his face was lighter than it had been in a while. "I promise, I'll tell you everything, but I need to have Scott here when I explain."

John frowned. "Scott? Why do you need Scott? Is he involved, too?"

Stiles chuckled wetly. "Dad, I'm telling you, you will never believe this story unless I have proof, and Scott's the best proof I can think of right now."

John settled back into the couch cushions. "Okay. If that's what you need."

Stiles sent off a quick text to his best friend, and within seconds a small chime announced the reply. He read it, nodded to himself, then looked at his father. "He says he'll be here in five minutes, so I guess I can go ahead and lay the groundwork. You remember last year, when you had the whole force out looking for the other half of Laura Hale's body?"

John's eyes went wide. "Yes."

"Well, it all started that night..."


End file.
